Scraps And Scribblings: The Ghosts of the A406 The April 2021 story

by Richard Tearle

This is the last short story that Richard had ready for publication. He passed away on April 13th 2021 - ironically, this is a ghost story about his beloved motorbikes...

The Ghosts of the A406

(From the book 'Rockers' by Johnny Sutton)

Forty years is a long time.

Of course the place had changed. Even closed down for a few years after they opened the Scratchwood services on the M1 in '69. They didn't demolish it though. A tyre outlet rented the premises at first, then a car hire company.

In '94 it had been bought by members and sons of members of the original 59 Club and now, seven years after that, it had been refurbished, revamped and was open again. I couldn't attend the relaunch but here I was just a week later, sitting at a smart wooden table, cup of coffee in front of me and a fag burning away in the smart glass ashtray.

The Ace Cafe. On the A406 near Stonebridge, north London. Then the road had been more commonly known as the North Circular Road.

I looked around, eyes narrowed. Strip lighting, very smart now. Not like the old days when they chained the spoons to the counter and the table tops were dirty Formica with fag burns that couldn't be erased without replacing the whole top. Brown stains told how many cups of tea had stood on there since the last wipe down.

My glance took everything in. Yes, they were motorcyclists, but the jackets were designer leather. Helmets, which were now compulsory, seemed more suited to astronauts or Stormtroopers. Comfort was more important than look. Of course, most of us wore skid lids back then. Some even wore ones that looked like they'd been liberated from the German army, white Swastikas roughly daubed on the back.

And how the bikes had changed! Brightly coloured rice burners – Japanese made machines. Hondas and Suzukis. Yamahas. Green, red, blues, yellow. Any colour you could think. And fancy fairings that cleaved the air, pushing it sideways to create a hole that the bike passed through without resistance.

OK, yeah, they are more powerful, safer and yet, somehow, boring. Sanitised.

Nothing like the look and feel of a classic machine, like a Norton Dominator, for example. Even the cops used them for a while.

My first bike? A 250cc Ariel Arrow, resplendent in white with gold tank and black saddle. Beautiful but a bugger to clean. Loved that bike until some fool in a cage forced me off the road. The bike was a write off. And so, nearly, was I.

Then I got a second-hand BSA Gold Star. Nice runner. Iconic, almost. But I wanted more power so I traded it in part-exchange for a Bonnie. Triumph T120 Bonneville. Two four stroke engines in parallel. 650ccs of monster power. Drop handlebars low enough for you to almost lie flat over the tank and saddle.

Still riding it today. Alright, just about everything has been replaced at least once, but it's still the same bike.

(Photo by The author)

I'd been holding a vain hope that some of my old mates might have showed up this evening. Not that I'd seen any of them for at least three decades. Most of them dead by now, I suppose. Or married with three or four 'dustbin lids'. Or just grown up like their kids. Tied down by the restraining ropes of marriage and responsibility. Proper jobs to go to in their smart suits, collars and ties.

I remember them all. Mickey G, Jimbo, Keef, Lenny. I was called Eddie, which wasn't my real name. It was more of a nickname because I was an Eddie Cochran fan, Fan? Hell, he was my idol. When he died in 1960 I cried tears. Went down to the Ace and played Summertime Blues on the Juke Box. Nobody minded.

Those were the days when we'd indulge in Cafe Racing. The idea was that you put your money in the Juke Box, select a track, rush out into the car park, jump onto your machine, kick it into life and roar out onto the North Circular, speed down to the Stonebridge Roundabout then race back trying to get back inside before the record ended. Few actually managed it and some didn't make it back.

When that happened a jar would be opened and we'd put our spare coppers, tanners or half-crowns in to help their widows or folks pay for the funeral. If they were a really good mare then many a ten bob note would go in. Least we could do.
Then there were the girls. Terry (Theresa) with adenoids and tight jumpers, 'Lunchtime' Linda. Thunderthighs Denise. Jenny. Sweet Jenny.

They were anybody's and nobody's. Prowl around, summing up the (male) talent, beg a lift home. Promised to make it all worthwhile but usually didn't deliver. You know what I mean.

Time to go. Have a long ride ahead of me tonight. No problem with the Bonnie: she never let me down. Took me all the way to Brighton and Margate many a time. Even down to North Devon one time.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Hell, I could still carry off the old Rocker look. Hair slicked back with Brylcreem – Eddie Cochran quiff, of course – white T-shirt, still with some oil stains that would not come out. Blue Levis. Too long so turned up to show the lighter shade of the inside. Scuffed black boots with a white fur lining.

Out of habit, I whipped out a steel comb and ran it through my hair. I laughed: I must look like a walking anachronism to this new, young breed in their fancy all-in-one leathers and brightly coloured crash helmets.

Outside I filled my lungs with the fresh sweet air. The car park was nowhere nearly full tonight. Unlike those Saturday nights in the early sixties. There'd be bikes everywhere then. Rockers in leather and jeans sitting on the saddles, talking, telling jokes. Tall stories. Smoking, swigging beer straight from the bottle. Eyeing up the girls. Bikes roared in the darkness, Kicked up gravel from under the back wheel.

The occasional fight.

And, further on in time, God help any foolish Mod who'd strayed into our lair by mistake. Poncy posers with their short hair, garbed in Ben Sherman shirt with tab collar, mohair suits and drab Parkas festooned with Union Jack badges and RAF roundels.

I stopped suddenly. A bike caught my eye. Vincent Black Shadow. Just like Kenny used to ride. For a moment I thought it was his machine, but I knew it couldn't have been: Kenny was long gone. Surely.

I lit up a cigarette. The tobacco was harsh on the back of my throat but it made me feel better. Thinking about all the old guys, the times we had, things we got up to.

But they were gone. They had to be. I was the only one left, I was convinced of that.

I straddled my Bonnie, nodded to a bunch of old blokes who were standing near my bike, chatting away. But not to me. There was something familiar about them, something vaguely familiar.

I heard them talking, pretended not to listen.

'Remember old Eddie?' Mickey G said, looking through me as if I wasn't there.

Jimbo laughed. 'Yeah. Mad bastard. Got killed on the old North Circular at Hangar Lane.'

'Lost control, so I heard,' Keef put in.

'Jeez, man,' Kenny said. 'That was years ago. What the hell brought him to mind?'

Mickey G shrugged. 'Don't know, really.' He scratched his bald head. 'A whisper in the wind?'

And then I knew. They were not the ghosts of the past. I was.